“Selfish! tiresome!” I repeated, “oh, Edith!”
“Well, then, many years ago my father and mother lived by the seashore not far from Yarmouth. They were poor. My father gave lessons in French, my mother taught music. But they earned sufficient to support themselves and my grandmother and me in comfort. We were a very happy family, for we all loved God and tried to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. I gave them, indeed, a great deal of trouble at first, but He overcame my stubborn heart at last, and then there was nothing to mar the happiness of our lives. But sickness came. My father died. My mother tried to struggle on for a time, but could not earn enough; I tried to help her by teaching, but had myself need of being taught. At last we changed our residence, in hopes of getting more remunerative employment, but in this we failed. Then my mother fell sick and died.”
She stopped at this point.
“Oh, Edith! this makes you doubly dear,” said I, drawing her nearer to me.
In a few minutes she continued—
“Being left alone now with my grandmother, I resolved to go to London and try to find employment in the great city. We had not been long here, and I had not yet obtained employment when an extraordinary event occurred which has ever since embittered my life. I went out for a walk one day, and was robbed.”
“How strange!” I exclaimed, half rising from the sofa. “What a curious coincidence!”
“What! How? What do you mean?” she asked, looking at me in surprise.
“Never mind just now. When I come to tell you my story you will understand. There is a robbery of a young girl in it too.—Go on.—”
“Well, then, as I said, I was robbed by a man and a boy. I had dear little Pompey with me at the time, and that is the way I came to lose him. But the terrible thing was that an accident befell me just after I was robbed, and I never saw my darling grandmother again—”